


Impress Me

by m4jor3tt3



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: M/M, Masturbating, this ist he worst thing ive ever written, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4jor3tt3/pseuds/m4jor3tt3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So uh I'm not super into whiplash but my bffsy and wife natalie is and this is my birthday present to her I wish it was better honestly but I just can't get behind this whole whiplash craze I am only a bean and this is what I produced ok</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impress Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesandworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesandworm/gifts).



“Faster.”

_Fuck._

“Faster.”

_Fuck._

“Faster.”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

It’s two in the morning and Andrew is wide awake and hard as a rock. Yawning, he turns his head to look at the red glare of the digital clock, then throws down the blanket. He’s drenched in a cold sweat and his sweats (his _sweat pants_ for Christ’s sake) feel constricting. He runs a hand through his damp, curling hair, and shoves down the waistband of his pants with the other. As he curls his fingers around his cock, he tries to picture Nicole- dark hair framing her round face, long lashes curtaining big brown eyes, pink lips stretched thin around his dick-

“Faster.”

“ _God dammit!_ ”

He prays that the walls are thick, because the curse that spills from his lips is so ridiculously obscene that even through the aftermath of his orgasm he can feel the embarrassment creeping up on him. He looks down at his cum splattered hand as his skin slowly cools down and sighs, dropping his head back into the pillow behind him. After a moment, he swings his clean hand out angrily towards the clock, knocking it to the floor with a loud clatter.

It’s the third time this week that Andrew’s woken up hard for his band director. It’s not his fault the girl who he maybe, sort of, kind of liked didn’t want anything to do with him because he maybe, sort of, kind of acted like a prick and fucking _Terence Fletcher_ has such big hands and when he’s really angry his voice wavers and even though he swears he doesn’t go to the gym his arms are _fucking outrageous_ and-

Alright, so maybe what went down with Nicole was his fault, but everything that Fletcher’s done _definitely_ had nothing to do with him.

Andrew wasn’t really one for feelings. Sure, he’d had girlfriends in high school, but none of those relationships had lasted long because he had been too focused on keeping his core class grades up so he could spend less time worrying about the quadratic formula and more time practicing his double time swing. Then he met Nicole, movie theater Nicole, who seemed so genuine and sweet, but then he stuck his foot in his mouth and made it out to her that he would never care for her like he cared for music, for studio band, for Shaffer-

For Fletcher, essentially.

If Terence Fletcher did anything, though, it was get on Andrew’s nerves.

*

“ _Neiman!_ ”

Andrew blinks, looking up to what broke his distraction. Fletcher is hovering over him, arms folded across his chest, the sleeves of his black t-shirt stretched taut across his biceps-

“Yeah?” Andrew asks, shaking his head slightly.

“Do you plan on actually playing for us today or are you just going to sit there and stare off into space like a fucking moron?”

Andrew blinks again, then glances down at his hands. His drumsticks hang loosely from his fingers, the tips resting on his right knee. He clears his throat and tightens his grip on them, then looks up at Fletcher, a slight smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth. “Ready when you are.” Fletcher arches an eyebrow then scoffs, turning on his heel to return to his stand. Andrew swallows and glances down at his music as Fletcher rattles off a measure number, then forces his eyes to quickly flit over the notes, watching for his cue.

However, almost unconsciously, his eyes slowly drag away from the papers in front of him and up to the man at the front of the room. His eyes slightly heated but extremely focused. A flick of the wrist brings about a crescendo, a flex of the fingers and silence coats the air. He occasionally nods, or gestures for a particular player to ease back or push on; Andrew can’t keep his eyes off his fingers.

Suddenly, Fletcher’s his right hand forms a fist and any playing tapers off awkwardly. Everyone jumps as Fletcher swipes one hand into the shaft of his stand, sending his music flying across the room. “Everyone get the fuck out!” He roars, sending students rushing to pack up their equipment. The outburst hardly phases Andrew, but he slowly rises to collect his own music when Fletcher points to him, rage evident in his dark eyes. “You. Sit the fuck back down.”

Andrew swallows hard, then slowly sets his sticks on the music stand and lowers himself back into the stool behind him, watching as the other band members trickle out of the room. As the door slams shut, Andrew looks over to Fletcher, who is working at picking up his music and making sure his stand isn’t broken. Andrew folds his hands in his lap and swallows, glancing down at his lap. He glances up slightly as he hears Fletcher sigh, one hand going up to rub his temple. “Neiman, can I ask you something?” He says after a long moment, his hands going to his hips. Andrew looks up and nods briefly, wringing his wrist. Fletcher finally turns to face him, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. "Where the fuck are you?”

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

“Because you sure as fuck aren’t in my band room right now.”

“I don’t… know what you mean-“

_“Neiman, you’ve been so damn distracted that if I had whipped out my dick and fucking slapped the first trombone with it you wouldn’t notice until _next week._ ”  
_

Andrew blinks and swallows softly, then shrugs. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“Well, you better start waking up- I want you here tomorrow at six bright eyed, bushy tailed and ready to play.”

Andrew wets his lips quickly and nods. “Yes, sir.”

Fletcher arches an eyebrow; Andrew’s face reddens slightly. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” Fletcher said after a moment, tossing his head toward the door. Andrew nods, quickly getting to his feet and collecting his music, knocking over his stool in the process.

*

The following week Andrew was kicked out of the band room again, and then again after two weeks, and then again after three days. He was managing three hours of sleep a night, due to the fact that he didn’t want to sleep in fear of having wet dreams about his band director. Well, not so much fear; he was feeling more embarrassed than anything. He debated with himself on getting in touch with Nicole just to get his mind off of Fletcher, but he could never quite bring himself to dial her number. So, he drowned himself in his work, practicing to the point of pain and then far past that, blasting his music as loud as possible without receiving any complaints from his neighbors.

Sometimes it worked, and sometimes he found himself punching the walls of his shower as ice cold water cascaded down over him.

*

It was a day like any other- aside from the fact that Fletcher had temporarily demoted Andrew to alternate due to his behavior in class for the past few weeks. Andrew absentmindedly turns the pages of whoever was playing (he hadn’t bothered to learn anyone’s names), an irritated eyebrow arched as he gently runs the one thumb over the purple and yellow bruises decorating the knuckles of his opposite hand. He glanced up as Fletcher cut off the rest of the group and called the rehearsal, then rises to his feet and slowly begins to gather his own sheet music, when he hears Fletcher clear his throat. “Not you, squeaker,” he says, arms folded across his broad chest. The other students file out of the room, leaving Fletcher and Andrew alone once again. “What is it?” Andrew asks, his music still bundled up in his arms. Fletcher gestures to the stool at the kit. “Have you been practicing?” He asked. Andrew shrugs slightly; Fletcher rolls his eyes. “It’s a yes or no question, Neiman.”

“Well, I’ve… not necessarily been… _practicing_ , but I’ve been playing-”

“Neiman, any idiot can sit down and beat at a drum set like a damn monkey on acid. I _asked_ you: have you been practicing?”

Andrew swallows, debates on how to answer, then finally shakes his head. “No, I… I haven’t, sir.” Fletcher sighs, rubbing at his temple briefly before looking over his shoulder at his stand. “There’s a concert this Thursday, and we’re playing the material we’ve been working on the past two weeks. I thought you could redeem yourself after your… series of stunts, but I guess I was wrong.”

Andrew’s eyes widened. “What? What are you-?”

“You lost the part, Neiman. Better luck next time.”

“You can’t do this to me, sir-”

“And who the fuck says I can’t?” Fletcher snaps; Andrew feels something clench in his chest at Fletcher’s sudden change in volume. “Sir, that part is mine. You can’t just-”

“I can ‘just’ do whatever I damn well please,” Fletcher says, one eyebrow arched. “There’s no way you’re getting that part back by Thursday.”

“I’ll do anything! Please, just… don’t take this part away from me.”

“Neiman, the only thing you could do to get this part back is either have all six songs memorized by Thursday- which is in three days, if you forgot how the days of the week go, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me- or acting like the pretty little girl you are sucking my dick.”

“I’ll do either! I-” Andrew cuts himself off, his ears burning as he realized what he’d just said, fully aware of how red his face must've looked as his hands began to shake slightly; he quickly began to wring his wrists to make the motion look at least a touch more voluntary. Fletcher gave him an exasperated look, then tossed his head towards the door. “You have two days. Impress me.”

*

That night Andrew doesn’t sleep. He wraps his hands up in gauze and goes straight to his kit, staring at his music until his eyes burn, playing until blood soaks through the white bandage and onto the kit, causing his sticks to slip from his hands. Sweat falls down his face in rivers, his chest heaves as he slumps over the kit, fingers trembling. He swallows hard, lifting his head to look up at the clock on the wall by the door- just past three in the morning. He could easily get another hour of practice in, then could shower, disinfect and bandage his hands, then grab McDonald’s for breakfast and head to morning rehearsal. Going over this game plan in his head, he realizes that it would probably be in his best interest to clean the blood off of his sticks and kit, clean his hands, then get some sleep, but a tiny voice in his head (well, it isn’t all that tiny, it’s usually Fletcher’s voice screaming at him, actually) is telling him that he could get sleep in between rehearsals, and that he should practice more. He rakes a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, then lets out a yell as he throws his sticks across the room, sending them crashing into the opposite wall, then clattering to the floor. He rubs at his eyes with a heavy sigh and stands from his stool, leaning against the wall behind him and closing his eyes.

“Impress me.”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Andrew shouts, kicking the stool over with a crash before sinking to the floor and hiding his face in his knees.

Why is he upset? It isn’t like this was anything new. Fletcher has always been an asshole, he doesn’t particularly care about anyone or anything except his music, and he strives for perfection and would sacrifice the well-being of his players in order to achieve it. If they fell along the way, then they just weren’t cut out to be in Fletcher’s studio band. Andrew’s the best of the best, or at least he tried to make himself out to be the best. It all made Andrew want to _explode_ , but he kept coming back for more. He kept coming back for the insults, the screaming, and the occasional threats of violence. Despite the bruises on his hands and the dents in his walls, the broken bathroom mirror that he’d been meaning to replace for a few months now, the rolls upon rolls of bandages he’d gone through to keep the blisters on his hands from breaking and becoming infected, he walked into that band room every day, sat through the … interesting, to say the least, verbal abuse that Fletcher poured on him and the rest of the band. Does he like it? Did some twisted, disgusting part of him actually enjoy the cruelty? Maybe it was some kind of battered persons’ syndrome and he kept coming back in hopes that Fletcher might actually be a decent human being.

_People don’t change_ , Andrew thought to himself, lifting his head from his knees and resting it against the wall behind him. Even if a person as horribly awful as Fletcher could change, it wouldn’t happen overnight.

Despite what his conscience was trying to get him to do, Andrew pulls himself up off the floor, makes his way across the room, then picks up his sticks. He needs to put this hour to good use, and he knows that if he spent it sleeping, he would just wake up again in twenty minutes. At least if he’s playing, he won’t think about Fletcher and he can keep his thoughts on what mattered.

And if he was playing, he would be too distracted to jack off to the thought of Fletcher roaring profanities at him.

*

"Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence."

Andrew had stumbled into the band room, his hair a wreck, his eyes red and drooping with sleep, his music spilling from its folder. "Sorry, I slept through my alarm-"

"Sorry doesn't cut it, sweetheart," Fletcher spits, tossing his head towards the kit. "Much to your dismay, I’m sure, we started without our precious page turner." Andrew swallows and quickly makes his way to his chair behind the music stand, setting his own folder in his lap and biting his lip. He glances up at Fletcher, who had turned and walked back to his own stand, flipping a few pages before looking up at the rest of the band. "Alright, guys- despite the fact that Neiman here decided to catch up on his beauty sleep, rather than come and rehearse with us, he and I have a sort of arrangement."

Andrew looks up, feeling his ears heat up and redden. Fletcher glances over at him and arches an eyebrow, then folds his arms. "Yes, Mr. Neiman thinks that his seat in the studio band is secure because he just has to be some sort of prodigy, considering he's sitting in that chair in the first place. He thinks that, even though for the past month he's been daydreaming and frankly, he's been taking up space. So, he made a promise to me."

Then Fletcher looks over at Andrew with a look in his eye that Andrew couldn't quite place. He gestures for the kid sitting at the kit to stand up, then nods to Andrew. "Our little squeaker said that he would memorize the three songs that we will be playing at the concert on Thursday and then play them for me, so that he could actually play with us. Isn't that right, Neiman?"

"I... I never-"

"Of course, it's right. So why don't you hop on that stool like a good little boy and show not just me, but the rest of the band that you aren't just wasting our time?"

Andrew sits in awe, eyes wide and face flushed with embarrassment. He couldn't believe what Fletcher was doing, humiliating him like this. His eyes dart around the room pathetically, only knowing that he wanted to avoid Fletcher's burning stare, then he slowly rises from his stool and moves to the one at the drums. He takes a deep breath then opens up his folder on the music stand, taking a brief glance at it before he heard Fletcher scoff. "We haven't got all day, Neiman." Andrew glances up at Fletcher briefly before pulling his sticks from their case and looking down at the drums. He takes a deep breath, then another glance at the music to his right, then begins to play.

Everything seems right with the world when he plays, despite the lingering pain in his hands that threatened to grow as he progressed through the first song. It’s a shorter piece, so he’s fairly confident in his memorization, but he had to internally yell at himself to keep from looking at his music. He focused on the music, he focused on the sound, and he focused on-

His eyes had drifted from the drums and up to Fletcher, who was nodding slightly, one hand in front of his mouth as he drummed a finger against his lips thoughtfully. Andrew swallowed, then, out of habit, he quickly looked away from Fletcher's eyes and to his music, causing his hand to slip and hit something out of place.

Fletcher cuts him off and sighs, shaking his head. "Well, gang, I'm sorry to have taken up our rehearsal time with this pathetic excuse for a drummer, but I think he's learned his lesson, hasn't he?"

"That's not fair!" Andrew shouts, suddenly getting to his feet and throwing his hands down. Fletcher looks back to him, one eyebrow arched quizzically. "Excuse me? I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Not fair?"

"You can't just put someone on the spot like that!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't all concerts putting someone on the spot, Mr. Neiman?"

Andrew flushes and swallows, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "You said I had three days- it's only been one! I've been working nonstop on this-"

"And you think the rest of the band hasn't? Unlike you, however, they've actually shown up to rehearsal ready to work!" Fletcher's volume was steadily increasing as he began to march towards Andrew, leaning over his kit.

"I work harder than anyone else in here and if you think otherwise, you're fucking lying to yourself!"

Suddenly, Fletcher lifts a hand and strikes Andrew hard across his left cheek, leaving Andrew completely speechless and filling the air in the room with so much tension you would need a saw to cut through it. Everyone is holding their breath as Andrew looks up from the floor and up to Fletcher, who is staring him down with enraged eyes.

“Don’t you dare think for one fucking second that you’re better than anyone else here,” he says softly, pointing a finger to Andrew as his cheek began to sting, and, much to Andrew’s dismay, his jeans began to feel much tighter than they did a moment ago.

“You are 

nothing, Neiman. A big, fat, steaming pile of fucking _nothing_.”

Andrew swallowed.

"Now quit embarrassing yourself and get out of my band room.”

Andrew stared back at Fletcher, unable to move as his fists tightened around his sticks. Suddenly, Fletcher’s eyes widened as he grabbed a cymbal by the stand and launched it across the room into the wall with a loud clang. “ _I said get the fuck out!_ ”

Andrew quickly grabbed his folder and held it in front of himself, then bent over to pick up his stick case before quickly running from the room, slamming the door behind him.

After he was a few feet down the hall, Andrew collapsed against the wall, panting softly and tipping his head back and closing his eyes tightly. He sighed, then glanced down at himself beneath the folder and found himself blushing brighter. He swallowed, looking around nervously before walking briskly down the hall into the nearest bathroom. He threw his folder onto the counter above the sink then hid himself in the nearest stall, slamming the door shut with a bang before quickly shoving his jeans down to his ankles.

_"You're nothing."_

_Andrew groaned softly as he wound the fingers of one hand around his dick, lifting the other to trace down the rapidly forming bruise printed on his cheek._

_"...pathetic excuse for a drummer..."_

Andrew turned his head to dig his teeth into his shoulder, swallowing what could've been a very lewd and loud noise as he begins to move his hand faster.

_"Act like the pretty little girl you are..."_

His cheek still burned and may have been bruised by Fletcher's hand, and the thought of a dark blue and red hand imprinted into his skin only pulled him closer to the edge. Fletcher's screams played on repeat in his head, the constant criticism, the insults, practically panting out "Faster, faster, faster-" (maybe Andrew had come up with that last one on his own). And then he was coming- hot, white streaks over his hand, a soft moan leaking through his teeth despite his best efforts at keeping himself quiet. His legs shook and he dropped his hand limply to his side. "Fucking asshole," he muttered, running his clean hand through his sweat drenched hair before quickly pulling down a long strip of toilet paper to clean himself up before the cum dried on his skin.

So, maybe, Andrew had a thing for... rougher things. Or maybe, he was technically still a virgin, having only been blown once in high school, and he didn't even really count that because he came within the first five minutes and then the girl had to go home, and he didn't really know what he was into, but if he knew anything, it was that something about the absolutely horrific way Fletcher treated him got him off in a way that nothing has ever been able to before.

_I'm disgusting,_ Andrew thought to himself, tipping his head to the side to rest it against the cool steel of the stall with a heavy sigh. He shook his head then drove the side of his fist into the wall, sending echoes throughout the bathroom.

*

Andrew didn’t go into rehearsal for the next few days. He sat in the audience at the show on Thursday that he should’ve been playing in, but only for a few minutes before he couldn’t stand watching the band he should be sitting with on the stage he should’ve been sitting on and had to excuse himself from the auditorium. As he left, however, he could've sworn that he saw Fletcher throw a glance over his shoulder in his direction.

When he got back to his apartment, Andrew took a brief look to his kit- the blood spattered across the faded white batter heads, the deep imperfections in the cymbals. He swallowed softly then turned away, making his way to the bathroom.

When he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he had to do a double take to make sure there wasn't someone in the bathroom behind him. His eyes were shadowed in dark circles from the lack of sleep, he looked considerably thinner and his clothes seemed to hang off of his frame due to his often forgetting to eat, his hair was greasy and slick with sweat that never seemed to disappear no matter how many showers he took. He blinked exasperatedly, unable to believe the image in front of him. Was this really what he was becoming? Looking worse than death and spending virtually all of his time either playing the drums or hating himself and his band director? He looked down at his hands, at the dark, browned bandages covering his fingers, then carefully peeled up the edge of one Band-Aid. He winced as he tore the rest of it away, revealing a dark red and brown blister in between his thumb and the rest of his hand. He bit his lip then, experimentally, attempted to stretch his fingers out. He gasped softly as he spread them apparently too far, causing part of the blister to crack and send a small drop of blood trickling down his palm. As he turned on the faucet he shook his head, holding his trembling hand beneath the stream of water. The rest of the bandages quickly became loose, then easily slipped off of his skin. His hands were healing, albeit slowly, but he would most likely be stuck with scars on his hands once the blisters fell away. He watched as the water washing over his hands turned a very pale pink, then reached out to turn off the faucet again. As he shook his hands dry, his mind wandered back to Fletcher- did he really look at him when he was leaving, or did he just imagine that? Why would he look at him in the first place? He must've known he was going to show up to the concert despite the fact he'd lost his seat.

Andrew shook his head, pulling open the medicine cabinet to pull out a box of Band-Aids. _He doesn't care_ , he thought as he pulled a bandage out and unwrapped it. _Not about me, not about anyone but himself._ He carefully plastered the bandage over a blister, then began to work on another.

_There's no way._


End file.
